Being Erma Bombeck

Recently I was thrilled to have a couple of memoir essays published, “Steal This Bull” in the beautifully eclectic print journal Gulf Coast, and the other called “Cigarettes: It’s What’s for Dinner” published in Longridge Review, an online journal specializing in creative nonfiction about childhood experiences.

Those two essays, about shoplifting and my mom’s strange cooking experiments, respectively, had been kicking around in my “not quite finished” essay file for a few years. Every now and then I’d pull them out and make more revisions, but something about them didn’t feel right. About a year ago, I figured out the problem: The voice wasn’t me. Well, it was me, but it was me desperately trying to be someone else. And I knew who that someone was: Erma Bombeck.

Erma Bombeck was a huge deal in our house when I was a kid. My mom loved Bombeck and read her newspaper columns out loud before dinner, followed by Art Buchwald, another of our idols. We had all of Bombeck’s books—paperbacks with titles like The Grass Is Always Greener over the Septic Tank and I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression—lined up in a little shelf-shrine in our spare room, which was crammed full of books*.

I grew up with that hallowed Bombeck voice in my head, her wry one-liners the gold standard of humor writing (“I’ve exercised with women so thin that buzzards followed them to their cars”). So when I started to write essays and memoir pieces years ago, naturally I tried to make them funny. The trouble was, as soon as I thought “humor,” the card-catalog librarian in my brain immediately went and fetched the Erma Bombeck voice. But my version of it came out in a weird, over-the-top voicey-voice**, a sort of quack that was trying way too hard to sound funny. 

 

For a long time I didn’t see anything wrong with that voice, but I did notice that my nonfiction got rejected a lot. (Probably one reason why I turned to poetry.) Then somewhere in the past few years, I was reading one of my old essays and could hear how awful that ersatz-Bombeck voice was, a new clang that I hadn’t noticed before. I suppose my ear had become tuned differently. I’d been steeping myself in Gay Talese, Eula Biss, John Berendt, and other masters of nonfiction, and I could see that they didn’t resort to any sort of voicey-voice to be engaging and even funny. I’d also been working as an editor at a book publisher that specialized in trivia and humor books, where we constantly had to warn freelance writers against using the “comedy voice”—an overstrained style that tried to make everything sound funny, when the key was writing about things that were funny (though a deft could writer make a funny story funnier).

This is not to say that I am now a master of comedy. In fact, I think I’ve stumbled onto the fact that I don’t have to be a master of comedy; after writing a lot more nonfiction these past few years, I see that my natural territory lies closer to seriocomedy. And I reserve the right to veer off into other territories. And as much as I still love and admire Erma Bombeck, I see that I’m not her; I don’t have whatever that magical thing was in her voice. All I have is my own voice, my own stories. I’m kind of chagrined that it took me 40 years to realize that. But it’s been fun going back through some old essays and de-voicing them, finding what’s beneath the quack. I’ve still got a pile of them to go through. Who knows what’s under there? 

Here are links to some other recent creative nonfiction pieces:

“Always Eat the Ugly Things First” in the Medford Mail Tribune

“It’s Good Just to Show Up: One Writer’s First (Terrifying) Public Reading” in The Review Review (soon to be reprinted in Far Villages, an anthology of essays for poets from Black Lawrence Press)

“Open Mikes: The Best of Times, the Worst of Times” on trishhopkinson.com

 

*As if to further prove that we were a strange family—the very point of the “Cigarettes” essay—we had so many books that my mother turned our spare room into a lending library for our neighbors. Each book had a slip of paper in it, and the neighbor would check out the book by handing us the slip, which we'd keep in a folder until they brought the book back. It was a minor hit for a few months, and then interest fell off and we went back to just having a crapload of books.

**Technical term.

My Year in Books, Part 1

This was the year I started reading again. Why I stopped reading is a long tale; the nutshell version is that a few years ago I came down with a mysterious illness that made me dizzy—constantly, every waking moment. Many things aggravated it: driving, walking, anger, talking to people who made me nervous, stress in general, grocery shopping, and—perhaps most distressing—reading. So for two or three years, books piled up around me but I couldn’t read them. It’s only been in the past year that I’ve been able to read again, but I found I was out of practice; I didn’t have a set reading time and routine like I used to, and I’d become embarrassingly addicted to television. But all those books were calling, so I figured it out—more or less—and am happy to present some book reviews from the past year’s catch.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★  The Mount
Carol Emshwiller (2002)

2012’s not over yet, but I can’t imagine finding another book that will take this one’s place as my favorite book of the year. The premise of this lyrical, wildly entertaining sci-fi tale is an uneasy one: Aliens have invaded Earth and enslaved humanity, but not in the usual TV-movie way, with plucky rebels taking potshots at sleek spaceships. In Emshwiller’s far more frightening world, the toddler–size aliens are so much smarter than humans that they’ve turned us into beasts of burden who work the fields and are ridden and raced by the wealthier aliens for pleasure. By the time the story takes place, this enslavement has gone on for many generations, and the humans are largely resigned to it. And for the protagonist, a young man who’s the favorite mount of an alien aristocrat, it isn’t a bad life: He gets good food, plenty of exercise to keep him in racing shape, and a warm stall to sleep in at night—often curled up next to his alien owner, also a youngster, who is completely devoted to his human pet. How the aliens control the humans—with a sense of entitled stewardship and the sincere belief that the humans would die or descend into barbarism without the aliens’ care—mirrors our own justifications for slavery in the past and, more immediately, our attitudes toward the animals who live alongside us right now. This important, mind-altering book is also a rollicking good read that may change the way you look at the cats, dogs, and horses around you.

★ ★  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Stieg Larsson (2008)

Sometimes a thick, mass-market blockbuster lives up to its hype—Lonesome Dove or The Firm, for instance. And sometimes it doesn’t, which was the case with this book that probably needs no introduction. I’m going to swim against the tide here and say that though I tore into this first volume of Larsson’s trilogy with relish, I ended up quitting about two-thirds of the way through. It took too long to get going, and the dark parts were so dark that it made me not want to spend my evenings with this book. I gave up crime novels long ago for this very reason—they focus too much on a small, twisted segment of human society that I don’t want my dreams to dwell on. I did love that bleak little Swedish town in winter, though, and I kept feeling like the book was about to knock my socks off—any time now, any day now, maybe right around the corner. Then I just got tired of waiting and decided to read something I enjoyed instead.

★ ★ ★ ★  An Old Junker: A Senior Represents

Howard Junker (2011)

Disclaimer: I know Howard Junker, a little. He published one of my poems a few years ago in his fine journal ZYZZYVA*, and many of us West Coast writers consider him literary royalty. So I was delighted to find that he’d written a book about his experiences as an editor, and as a college student, and…well, as a person. And this book does not disappoint. Basically a collection of blog posts, it runs the gamut from reminiscences about his school days (and an astonishingly large number of soon-to-be-famous schoolmates) to the vagaries and gossip of life in the litmag world and the motley and combative writers who make up the San Francisco “scene.” The book is—like its author—funny, erudite, wide-ranging, and sometimes scathing (don’t get him started on Dave Eggers), and it touches on dozens of authors that I now want to read, particularly Ploughshares founder DeWitt Henry, about whom Junker writes elegantly and affectionately. The only curious speed bump is that An Old Junker is presented (at least on Howard’s website) as a “blognovel of old age,” which calls into question how many of the perfectly plausible stories are actually fiction. Similarly, the subtitle A Senior Represents doesn’t do the book justice; this is a fresh, entertaining journey through an unusual life, told through the very modern device of short, snappy blog posts. So, while I wished that the book would have picked a less ambiguous genre (or spelled out more clearly what makes it a “novel”), I loved An Old Junker and genuinely couldn’t put it down.

But that's not all . . . part 2 is here.

* When I got published in ZYZZYVA, I was invited to read at an issue-release party at the San Francisco main library. As part of the deal—and perhaps even more thrilling—I got to have dinner with Howard, along with a few other starstruck contributors, at a Thai restaurant. There were too many of us to sit at one table, so we had to split up into two groups. Normally well-mannered, I shoved my way through the crowd to grab a spot at Howard’s table. And I swear, it was like having dinner with Gore Vidal—he was gracious, charming, and funny, shifting gears effortlessly between literature and current events, world travel and good restaurants. But he was no snob; I got the impression he could converse just as easily about Netflix vs. Hulu or where to find a good mechanic.

Little Things That Editors Hate

A while back, I talked in this blog about that moment when an editor is sitting there looking at two good poems or stories, but she only has room in the journal or anthology for one. She likes them both, but one of them has to get stuffed into its SASE and sent back to the minors. That’s a time when a few polished touches in your submission, like a straightforward bio and a non-scary cover letter, can tip the scale in your favor.

But there’s a dark side to this, and that’s where we’re going now. In my years as an editor, I’ve seen writers shoot themselves in the foot countless times with a bit of attitude or carelessness that probably seemed harmless when they did it, but turned into a deal-breaker when that submission was pitted against another. So, to give your work its best fighting chance out there in the literary trenches, here are a few little submission boners to avoid.

1. Don’t provide the editor with “helpful hints” on how to deal with your submission.

Cover letters can go so wrong, so fast. Sometimes writers get mixed up about who’s doing the writing and who’s doing the editing, and they feel compelled to tell the editor how to do her job. Even a hint of this sort of attitude can scare off an editor. Here are some examples, paraphrased from actual cover letters I’ve seen over the years.

“I think your readers will enjoy these poems.”

A lot of writers use this seemingly innocent phrase. It’s the equivalent of small talk at a cocktail party—I mean, you’ve got to say something to be polite, right? But this line instantly undermines the author’s credibility because it sounds both insincere and slightly arrogant. And it doesn’t say the writer has read the journal; in fact, it makes me suspect that he hasn’t. This writer is better off saying what he admires about the journal—the overall tone, or a poem he liked in a recent issue—proving he’s done his homework. If he hasn’t seen the journal (I don’t condone that, but I know it happens), he might mention something about its website or blog that he liked (because he probably looked at those when he was getting the guidelines). But if you can’t pull that off with honesty, just go the direct route: Avoid the chitchat, and wow the editor with your excellent poem or story.

“Please consider my story and, if you like it, feel free to edit it.”

This is another phrase that sounds sort of polite. But it implies that the author knows the story isn’t quite there—and also implants that idea in the editor’s head. Even worse: “Feel free to edit it down to your maximum length.” That just makes me scratch my head. I start thinking about those ballpoint pen refills that you can cut with a pair of scissors so they fit all kinds of different pens. Remember those? Messy. Inky. And what am I supposed to cut out of this story? The bad parts?

“I have not included an SASE because most publishers respond via e-mail and you should too.”

This is code for “Publish my piece, you stupid Luddite.”

“I have made my story just long enough to fit on three pages of your publication.”

OK, this one’s pretty rare, but it happens. And it’s sort of endearing. I mean, this author has counted up how many words (or, in my OCD fantasies, characters) fit on a page in my journal. And he’s done me the favor of editing it so I won’t have to touch it—it already fits! This puts me in mind of those “starving artist” sales, where you can buy an oil painting for that weird little phone alcove in your hallway, and another for the spot next to the bathroom sink—all for 50 bucks. Who cares what’s on them? They fit perfectly!

2. Don’t scatter your contact information all over your submission.

This one happens a lot. Keep in mind that, at some literary journals, the person who opens the mail is also the person who reads the submissions, at least in the first round. And while a good story or poem will trump any number of gaffes, it’s wise not to piss off this first reader by putting your name at the top of the cover letter, your phone number in the middle, and your e-mail address at the end. That poor editor is probably logging hundreds of entries into a database, and you’ll gum up the works by not making it easy for him. One time when I was logging in several hundred submissions, I found myself frequently barking the m—f word when people didn’t put their name and contact info in the upper left corner and the genre in the upper right, as they were asked to do in the guidelines. I spent hours logging those things in, and I got tired. Tired and mean. I’m just sayin’.

3. If there’s a postmark deadline, don’t mail your submission by Priority Mail, which costs a couple bucks more than First Class.

This is money down the drain. If it’s a postmark deadline, the journal or contest will build in a few extra days for the stragglers to come in—the envelopes that got wedged in the door of the mail truck or delayed by that storm in the Midwest. As long as your letter is postmarked by their deadline, you’re good. Priority Mail and its overnight kin—Express Mail, FedEx, etc.—all carry a hint of desperation and wastefulness that will make your editor a little uncomfortable right off the bat.

4. Don’t forget to include an SASE, or at least an e-mail address and phone number.

I know—who in the world forgets all of these things? It always surprises me, but it does happen sometimes. I can only assume it’s an accident, and I can’t get on my high horse about how stupid it is, because I’ve done some careless things when I was cranking out submissions in a hurry, like sending out simultaneous submissions when I didn’t mean to, and addressing letters to the wrong editor. But this gaffe is a heartbreaker because even if I love your work, I’ll have a hard time contacting you. And you’ll think I’m the world’s worst editor for not even having the decency to send you a rejection. Unhappy faces all around. When I used to kayak a lot, I kept a bonehead checklist by the door—paddle, life vest, and even boat—to keep me from arriving at the lake without the kayak or drowning myself out there. If you’re as forgetful as I am, a Post-It note next to your computer can save you a disaster or two.

5. Don’t use those big Tyvek, polyester, or spun-bonded envelopes that have to be cut open with a pair of scissors.

This is actually my number-one pet peeve about submissions. I hate, hate, hate those big, rip-resistant envelopes and their lumpy cousins, the yellow bubble envelopes. These inventions from hell make me put down the letter opener and sort through all the junk on my desk to find the scissors—which are always far, far away—just to open that one damned submission. You’d think this would only factor into the early envelope-opening, logging-in part of the process. But oh, no—I will remember that submission.

Honorable mentions:

6. Cigarette smell wafting out of the envelope.

7. Not putting enough postage on your submission so it arrives at the publisher with postage due.

8. “I wasn’t sure how many poems we could submit, so I sent both of mine.”
(I actually sort of love this one.)

Little Things That Editors Love

A while back, I was talking with my friend, the poet Amy MacLennan, about an odd topic. We’ve both been reader/editors for literary journals and publishers, which means we’ve both spent many hours wading through piles of submissions, logging them in and sorting them into the Yes pile, the No pile, and the Maybe pile. The odd topic was this: Once in a while, a moment comes around when an editor is sitting there with two poems or short stories, both of which she likes, but only one of which she can accept. Maybe the fiction anthology is down to its last slot, or there’s room for one two-page poem, but not two. What will sway this editor to pick one piece of writing over another when, for all practical purposes, they’re equally good?

This is when little things become important—strange little things that an editor starts to notice when she’s read 300 submissions in a row. Picking one piece over another at this point may be a very unscientific process, one that boils down to a bit of charm, or a small annoyance, that the writer inadvertently sprinkled into his or her submission. Every editor’s different, and there’s no accounting for pet peeves. But let’s assume that I’m sitting there with two pieces of writing in my hands—one yours, and one that’s somebody else’s. Assuming that both of them feature stellar craft and suit my taste, what little things can you do in your submission that will make me root for you?

1. Surprise me.

By “surprise,” I don’t mean put a cockroach in the envelope, or tack another bloody O. Henry ending onto your short story. (Don’t get me started on O. Henry abuse.) The kind of surprise I like is, for instance, a sonnet that startles me with its gorgeous language set against an unusual topic—say, hospital food or safety deposit boxes. Or a short story that’s in the form of an accident report or a shopping list. This is the kind of jolt that lifts one good poem or story over another good one, a certain transcendence that makes an editor feel like she’s discovering truly inventive writing, perhaps even changing the course of literature. What editor doesn’t want that?

2. Include a short, straightforward bio with a few decent credentials and nothing cutesy.

Notice that this has nothing to do with your story or poem; this is all about the cover letter. Even if you have no publishing credits whatsoever, this is where you play it straight and say that you’re a stay-at-home mom or retired plumber or whatever, and maybe you’ve taken a few creative writing classes. If you have good credits—well-known literary journals, or small ones—list three to five of them*, and maybe a contest or two that you won, a degree you earned, or somebody famous you studied with, and keep it around 50 words. That’s it—no soliloquies, and no jokes. Humor in your story or poem is fine, but humor in a cover letter is like target-shooting in a strange, dark room—you’ll probably miss, and things will just go wildly wrong from there. If you’re a writer who likes mantras, here’s one for the cover letter: Do not scare off the editor.

3. Keep your cover letter simple.

This goes hand in hand with the short, straightforward bio, but it encompasses the entire look of your cover letter. When I was reading submissions for an anthology a while back, I was surprised at how annoyed I got with the overdecorated cover letters. I saw all sorts, from big splashy author logos to pastel photos of ripply lakes and aphorisms about dancing in the rain. All of those things qualify as too much information. I’m a sucker for elegant touches, like bullet points between the state and zip code, or the little telephone icon before a phone number. But after seeing so many methed-up cover letters, I’m leaning more and more toward the humble, plain-Jane variety, with the writer’s name and address at the top left-hand corner in the same font as the rest of the letter. (Needless to say, avoid frou-frou fonts, or the kind that a former co-worker called “too fontsy.”) The main attraction should be your poem or story; for the cover letter, the only rule of thumb is that it should not be distracting. If it does come down to you and that other author, don’t make the editor think, “Hmm…the one with the neutral cover letter that doesn’t say much, or the crazy teddy-bear lady?”

4. Just send one or two entries. Not twenty. Not fifty.

One exception to this: It might actually be OK to send twenty or fifty entries in to a contest. You have to pay for every one, so you’ll be helping them keep the contest going, and that’s not a bad thing. But if you’ve got twenty genuinely good stories or poems, they’ll do better work for you if you spread them around rather than putting all your literary eggs in one basket. And if you’re submitting to a journal or anthology—well, let’s just say that when an editor sees thirty-eight identical envelopes in the mail bin, he probably won’t be thinking, “I bet I’ll love this person’s work and will be thrilled to read every one of these!” Again, editor-ay, no air-scay.

5. Do any of the following, some of which are completely out of your control:

Be a little kid.

I love getting submissions from kids. I don’t care if the story is wildly inappropriate for our publication; these small people with their hand-scrawled cover letters and drawings of their hamsters just kill me. That’s not to say that I’ll accept the piece. But I will send the nicest rejection letter you ever got.

Be one of many people from your small town who sent in a submission.

I love this too. I’m fascinated by the little batches of envelopes that come in from the same tiny town in Kansas or Manitoba or wherever. Obviously these people know each other; they’re probably in a workshop or night class together. And because I’ve been in those workshops and classes where we all ganged up and tried for the same publications, and then laughed about it over coffee later, I’m instantly on your side. Bonus points if you’re from the same family.

Hail from an exotic-sounding place.

This is completely immature on my part, but I will give you a slight edge if you live someplace that sounds really cool, like Black Kitten Road or Woolgoolga, Australia.

Next up: There’s a flip side to this, of course. What dog-doodies should you avoid to keep your work out of the rejection pile? Stay tuned…

* Bonus pet peeve: authors who list every place they’ve ever been published, complete with the title of each poem or story, in a big honkin’ paragraph.

Photo by Niklas Bildhauer